Hasenpfeffer

Hasenpfeffer

I was reading  The Cat Who Dropped A Bompshell by Lilian Jackson Braun today and came across a word I haven't used since 1978ish.

The word was 'hasenpfeffer'.

No, it's not a German word for a big sneeze but rather a German recipe for rabbit stew. When I was young and pregnant and living on our family's ancestral farm out in the middle of nowhere in Chocowinity, N.C., my young husband ran over a rabbit. Because we lived from check to check he thought it a good idea to bring the fresh kill home and make something out of it. If they could do it on Little House on the Prairie then we could too.

I told him to go ahead and try, so he asked someone what he could do with it and he got a recipe for Hasenpfeffer. So he skinned the rabbit and tried to pin the fur on a board to dry. He then proceeded to make this thing called Hasenpfeffer for our dinner. I gratefully stayed out of the kitchen as I didn't want to see any part of it. After all, being pregnant I didn't fathom the thought of seeing anything that had just hit the road being put in a pot. But my husband was rarely in the kitchen cooking during those years so I didn't want to negate his energy toward making a dish however unappealing it was in my mind.

This stew is made with bacon, wine, garlic, shallots, other herbs, and spices. But what he actually used at hand I have no memory.

When all was herbed, doused with wine, and stewed for a long while it was finally ready. I sat at the old wooden table which my mother had bought at an "antique" store and smiled wanly as my husband dished out this concoction into my bowl. I took my first spoonful and tried hard not to gag on the very stringy meat. Not what I had thought. I had visions of a thigh looking somewhat like a long, skinny chicken leg and was going to pretend that it was, but this stringy thing in my mouth did not resemble that and I couldn't eat another bite. All I could see in my dish was this furry little animal that had been merrily hopping across the Aurora Highway to its sudden demise and my pregnant self could not go on.

I excused myself gracefully from the table and made a peanut butter and jelly sandwich while my husband gallantly trudged on eating the stew which he had not necessarily hunted for but rather gathered off the side of the road.

I'm not sure if he really liked it or just pretended to because he had his pride.

At any rate, no more Hasenpfeffer was ever served at our house again!

(c)nancy 6.8.2016